


all plans are golden in your hands

by verity



Series: forget our future plans [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Break Up, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Getting Back Together, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Pack Family, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a month or two for Derek to pick up on a few things. Like how he's never met any of Stiles's friends. Like how he doesn't know what, exactly, Stiles does for a living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all plans are golden in your hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eriizabeto](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=eriizabeto).



> Greatest thanks to betp for her encouragement and fic midwifery!
> 
> Details about the fuck-or-die situation are in the end notes; I recommend reading if you have concerns about consent. <3

Derek goes home a few times after that first frenzied haze of fucking: a night, a weekend, scattered days during the week. The cozy, crowded apartment he shares with his sisters doesn't smell right anymore, even though the layered scent of pack—cardamom, Floo powder, juniper over soft wolf musk—hasn't changed. Derek makes it through two weeks with a worn, stale pair of Stiles's boxers wadded up beneath his pillow before Laura drags him out of bed by the scruff of his neck at 4AM and says, "Explain."

"It's 4AM." Derek stares at her Hello Kitty slippers. "Why are you awake?"

Laura sinks to her knees beside him, not loosening her hold. "You keep tossing and turning," she says. "You haven't been sleeping, Der."

Anything Derek could say at this point would just incriminate him further. Instead of protesting, he lets his body go limp, submits to her, dropping one shoulder to bare his throat further.

"You can't sleep without him." Laura's voice softens. "Is that what it is?"

Derek closes his eyes. "I—it'll get better, probably."

"Yeah, no, don't think so," she says. "Floo him. He'd better be here in the morning."

—

Sunday breakfast has been a Hale tradition as long as Derek can remember. At Hogwarts, he got up early to sit with Laura at the Gryffindor table before everyone else flooded in, let her say the moon-blessings Mom did at home over their waffles and pumpkin juice; Derek did the same for Cora, later, while they ate in a nook outside the kitchens, silent and sober. Cora was in Stiles's year, he in Gryffindor and she in Slytherin. She probably remembers Stiles. Which—Derek hasn't exactly said where he's _been_ , the last two weeks, although it's not like his sisters couldn't—he just, he didn't want—

Stiles rolls over and throws a leg over Derek, straddling him. He sits in the cradle of Derek's hips for a moment before he reaches down and cups Derek's face in his hands. "Getting lost in there?"

"Maybe," Derek says. Stiles's hair is a tawny halo around his face, golden at the edges where it meets the sunlight streaming in behind him. "I'm—not very good at this."

"Well, you've dated at least two mass murderers," Stiles says. "No offense, but I'm surprised your alpha hasn't hauled me on suspicion of banging you already."

Derek reaches up to cover one of Stiles's hands with his own. "You're not—"

"No," Stiles says, leaning down.

Maybe it'll get old eventually, maybe the shock of Stiles's touch will dim, stop feeling like static discharged, or maybe it's—normal. Derek tilts his head back and surrenders to the kiss, already half drunk with the heady fulfillment of Stiles's mouth on his, yielding, supple lips parting when Derek brushes his tongue against them. Stiles is demanding, playful, impossibly gentle by turns, mercurial: Derek doesn't know him well enough yet to predict his moods, to anticipate how Stiles will come to him. Now Stiles cradles Derek's face like it's some delicate, precious thing, rubbing his thumbs against Derek's cheeks as they kiss, soothing him and stoking the fire between them at the same time.

Derek could lose himself in this so easily, could charm Stiles open and wet and bury himself inside, anchor them body and soul—but it's Sunday, and there's Sunday breakfast, which is why Derek came home last night. So he pulls away after a minute and says, "We should—"

Stiles sighs. "Right."

—

Laura raises an eyebrow when she sees them standing in the kitchen doorway. "You're helping me with the pancakes," she says to Stiles after a moment. "Derek, you sit."

The kitchen is long and narrow, punctuated by a north-facing window that looks out on the unbroken brick of the building next door. Stiles has to squeeze past Cora at the work table to join Laura at the stove. Cora narrows her eyes at him, but saves her scowl for Derek when he drops onto the stool wedged between the table and the hutch that serves as their pantry. When the fire happened, Laura was barely out of school, just starting Auror training in the city; they've never rebuilt, just moved from apartment to apartment, makeshift den to makeshift den. They've been in this one since Cora finished school. Derek's gotten used to it, the plain white walls and cheap brass fixtures, the outlets they've plugged with plastic as if they're a pack full of Muggle children, but it looks shabby and bleak compared to Stiles's studio.

"So, pancakes," Stiles says to Laura, taking the bowl of batter from her hand. "I guess you've, uh, started—"

Laura grimaces at the plate of blackened tragedy on the counter. "Normally we make Derek cook. I'm terrible in the kitchen, and Cora is only good with knives."

Cora dices a cantaloupe in pointed silence.

Stiles turns down gas— _how many times_ has Derek told Laura not to touch the cast iron, not everything can be fixed with a simple _Reparo_ —and drops a blob of batter onto the griddle. "Gas stoves are a little complicated. Did you ever take Muggle Studies?"

"No." Laura passes him the spatula. "Did you?"

Stiles shrugs, his eyes on the stove. "I grew up with this stuff."

There's an uncomfortable silence before Cora drops her knife on the cutting board and turns toward them. "Don't," she says sharply—to Laura, not to Stiles. "Stop it. I don't know what you're—you know who Stiles is."

"Yeah, you arrested me that one time," Stiles says neutrally.

Derek clears his throat, and his sisters glance toward him guiltily, like they've forgotten he's in the room. "Really?" he says.

Stiles flips the pancake so it's charred side up: the first one's always a sacrificial lamb. "It was a peaceful protest, okay, house elf solidarity—"

"Oh, yeah," Derek says. "I'd forgotten about that, that you…"

Their eyes meet when Stiles glances over his shoulder, smiling shyly, and Derek can't help but smile back, even though his stomach is all nervous and fluttery beneath the scrutiny of his sisters. He wants to soothe the tense line of Stiles's shoulders, rest his face against the nape of Stiles's neck, lose himself in the scent of his mate surrounded by his pack—

"Holy Merlin Santa McDonald," Laura says, sniffing the air.

Cora picks up her knife and one half of a honeydew melon. "I told you so."

—

Derek moves in with Stiles, into his cluttered, sunny studio, where there's somehow room for another dresser and a desk. Stiles's kneazle is less accepting, but they rarely take to werewolves. The apartment is in a wizarding building with a designated Apparition point downstairs that cuts Derek's commute to Flourish & Blotts in half, and Stiles is always waiting with dinner when Derek comes home, although half the time they let it go cold on the counter. Now that there's nothing to keep them apart, Derek can't keep his hands off Stiles, has to have him morning, noon, and night, goes to sleep smelling of them both, filthy and happy and satisfied, before he wakes again to rut lazily against Stiles's marked skin.

So it takes a month or two for Derek to pick up on a few things. Like how he's never met any of Stiles's friends. Like how he doesn't know what, exactly, Stiles does for a living.

The awareness trickles in slowly at first, and then suddenly, while Derek is doing inventory of the used textbooks in anticipation of back-to-school sales. He's organizing their copies of _Hogwarts, A History_ by edition, flipping through to check for markings that can't be spelled out, when his mind drifts to Stiles, whom he last saw naked and eating toast in bed, promising Derek that he'd change the sheets. Stiles—Stiles doesn't have a job, as far as Derek knows, but their apartment is littered with notebooks filled with Stiles's blocky printing, and Stiles doesn't have family paying his exorbitant rent. He must be doing _something_.

Derek has to sit down for a few minutes, until his vision stops swimming and his breath evens out. He's always the last to notice this stuff.

—

When Derek gets home, there's clean sheets on the bed and stew simmering on the stove, but Stiles hasn't bothered to get dressed; he's sprawled over the couch, reading, hair damp and skin clean. "Hey," he says, rolling on his back to bare his belly, dick soft between his legs.

Derek drops his bag by the door, toes off his shoes, comes over to the couch to kneel on the floor next to Stiles. He wants to touch Stiles everywhere, tease him until his dick is flushed and leaking. Instead, Derek takes a deep breath and says, "You've been keeping secrets from me."

Stiles holds up his hand, flicks a finger: a bookmark falls into his open palm. He places it carefully between the pages before he sets his book on the side table; his tattoos roil, glowing hot and red, the ends licking Stiles's wrists like flame. "Yeah."

The admission makes Derek's chest go tight. "Do they—do your friends know? Is that why you haven't—"

"I don't have a lot of friends anymore," Stiles says, lowering his eyes. "But, yeah."

Derek digs his fingers into the soft pile of the rug beneath him. His nails are blunt and neatly filed: Derek can't hurt Stiles now, even if he wanted to, if he ever could have. The wolf in him whines, low and hurt. "Are you going to tell me?"

On the other side of the room, the kitchen timer dings. "Do you trust me?" Stiles says.

"No," Derek says. He sits back on his ass, puts his head between his bent knees.

—

Laura doesn't ask any questions when Derek steps through her fireplace, just hugs him tight, her cheek against his, scenting him. "I'll make up the bed for you," she says.

Cora comes up behind Derek and winds her arms around his waist, pressing her face between his shoulder blades. She doesn't say anything at all.

—

The wolfsbane-laced Dreamless Sleep Cora brings home from work lets Derek gets some rest at night, enough to make it through the day at Flourish & Blotts before he collapses, exhausted, at home. He and Cora sleep in Laura's big bed at night, curled together like they did in the days after the fire, and their touch anchors him. Stiles is Derek's mate, but Derek's grieved a family before, his alpha-mother and father, aunts and uncles, the cubs whose faces have almost faded from memory. The hateful truth is that Derek will survive.

It's almost Christmas when Allison Argent shows up at Flourish & Blotts in her Auror robes, Gryffindor-red boots peeking out beneath the hem. "Auror Argent," she says softly, leaning over the counter, badge in hand. "Do I need to take you into custody, Mr. Hale, or will you come peacefully?"

Derek is still standing, but he's outside his body, somehow, floating, like he was when Laura met him in the Headmaster's office to break the news. "What did he do?" Derek says, slow, resigned, certain.

Allison frowns for a moment, then turns toward Isaac, at the end of the counter, who's looking at them with undisguised concern. "I need Derek to come with me on official Auror business. Is it possible that you can cover for him, Mr.—?"

"Lahey," Isaac says, nods.

"We'll leave from the back," Allison says, gesturing for Derek to follow her.

—

Instead of leading him toward the Apparition point behind the store, Allison drags Derek into the break room. She sits him down on one of the more comfortable chairs and makes him drink a glass of water before she sits down across from him and says, "I'm not sure we've ever properly met."

"We sat across from each other at the trial," Derek says flatly. "Is that going to happen again?"

Allison sighs. "Fucking hell." She rubs her eyes. "Look—how much did Stiles tell you, about—his binding?"

There's no point in pretending to Allison—she knows exactly how stupid Derek is, how gullible, how willing he is to give his heart over to people who only want to use him. "Stiles never said—I don't even know what he _does_. So just—get it over with, whatever it is, I can't—"

"I can't believe you," she snaps. "You don't—it's like you don't even know him."

Derek has to fight the shift, the urge to dig claws into his thighs, to draw his own blood. "Stiles is my mate. My wolf chose him for me. What do you think that means?"

Allison's shoulder droop; all at once, she looks young, exhausted. "Oh, Merlin."

"What did he do?" Derek says.

Allison shakes her head. "He didn't do anything," she says. "That's the problem. You have a pack, Derek, you could—Stiles doesn't have anyone like you. You're his anchor now."

—

The Boy Who Lived opens the door of Stiles's apartment before they can knock. Scott's a wolf, too, bitten by Derek's rogue uncle, who's been dead again for nearly a decade. "Hey," he says to Allison; his gaze lights on Derek for a moment, wary, before he redirects his attention to his wife. "Lydia got Stiles to sleep for a while, but he's not doing well."

"Stiles never told him about the binding," Allison says. "Derek's been—his pack is anchoring him. He doesn't know."

Scott groans and slaps a hand to his forehead. "Seriously?"

"You owe me ten galleons," someone else says, shoving Scott out into the hallway, a petite witch in dark robes. "Get out of here, you're just making him agitated."

Derek steps back, but Allison grabs his arm before he can retreat further. "Not _you_ ," she says. "You'll—Lydia will tell you what to do."

"Go on," Scott says, nodding toward the door. "You guys—make up, okay? We're not going to let him keep you out of the loop anymore. We're—"

"GO," says the witch behind Scott.

—

Lydia Martin is the Arithmancy professor at Hogwarts; she started out in Stiles's year, finished with Derek's, then studied mathematics at Muggle universities until Morrell became Headmistress and offered her a job. "I'm telling you this because you need to know how serious this is," she says. "I let Harris proctor my fifth years' exams so I could come here."

"Why?" Derek says, helpless.

"Stiles is my friend." Lydia sighs. "He's an idiot, but he's my best friend. We all love him."

Stiles is lying on their—his—bed, as naked as he was when Derek left him; they've been apart longer than they were together, now. His tattoos are a shimmering white, the skin around them red and puffy, and his brow is slick with sweat. Lydia's spelled him into stasis, so his chest is still, lungs and pulse halted. The absence of his heartbeat makes Derek's own thud in his ears. "What did he do?" Derek asks for the third time.

"You know how Voldemort died," she says.

Derek read the headlines, singing praise for the Boy Who Lived, the True Alpha, red-eyed and red-handed in victory. "Scott tore his heart out."

"Stiles had to destroy pieces of Voldemort's soul first, and Stiles bound his power," Lydia says. "Stiles still has all that power, Derek. Voldemort's power. It's inside him."

"It's—dark?" Derek ventures.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "No, it's not his _soul_. But Stiles has to use that power. The tattoos help, and the plants—but the main way he gets it out is, you know, sex. "

"No, I _don't_ know," Derek says through gritted teeth, though it makes sense. Stiles was a regular at the club they never went back to; he was smooth, practiced, good at getting what he wanted. "What does this have to do with me?"

(The way the air between them had almost crackled with power, the way—it wasn't normal, it was never—)

"You're his mate, honey," Lydia says, tilting her head toward the bed. "It goes both ways. You're the only one who can help him let it out."

—

After Lydia leaves, Derek turns out the lights, undresses before he climbs into the bed. Stiles glows like a florescent Muggle bulb, his skin painfully hot to the touch. He'd burn a human.

Derek isn't human.

Carefully, he gathers Stiles to him, pulls Stiles into his lap, numbly says the charms. Derek doesn't want it this way, not knowing if Stiles would want him here, now, knowing there's no option either way, not if he wants Stiles to survive instead of flaming out like a spent wick. Stiles won't remember Derek's gentleness. He won't—he won't even remember himself.

Derek drapes Stiles's arms over his shoulders, tucks his face against Stiles's neck, and whispers, " _Finite Incantatem_."

A long moment passes before Stiles's chest heaves and he takes a gulping breath. It doesn't take much longer for Stiles start trembling and writhing, sobbing, wretched with need, barely strong enough to hold onto Derek, whimpering into his ear. He's a hurt animal, nothing like the clumsy schoolboy, the polished stranger, the affectionate mate Derek remembers. Derek runs his hands up and down Stiles's arms, presses his lips to Stiles's forehead, but that does nothing to soothe him.

The horrible truth Derek's held in for months surges over him like the tide, and he has to rub his face against Stiles's shoulder to wipe his own tears on Stiles's branded skin. He _loves_ Stiles. There's nothing Derek would rather do than care for Stiles as chastely and devotedly as Derek's own mother had, nursing him through childhood fever, but no amount of cool compresses or healing potions will cure Stiles now. Derek has to fuck him. He has to knot Stiles, to ground him, to channel the power Stiles has been holding in since they parted.

Derek nuzzles Stiles's cheek and tries not to think of him as a sick, fragile pack member. He closes his eyes, pictures Stiles as he was the night they met, confident and unafraid of Derek—and what did Stiles have to fear? Derek is a werewolf, but he's far from a magical prodigy, let alone teeming with innate force that burns him like a candle lit from both ends. Stiles is no defenseless lamb, even as he shakes and keens with longing in Derek's embrace. _Mate._

It's awkward to touch himself, reaching in between himself and Stiles, but Derek manages. He has to get hard enough to get inside Stiles, to do most of the work. He keeps his head presses against Stiles's as he strokes his dick, murmuring, promising, "Stiles—it's going to be okay, I'm going to—"

Stiles groans when Derek pushes up into him, his ass slick and ready, his flesh trembling against Derek's thighs. He tries to push down on Derek, but he's too weak to do much more than clench around Derek's dick, little flutters that make Derek gasp. And—he can feel it now, Stiles's magic, settling over them like a shroud. Softly, Stiles says, "D—Der—"

Derek thrusts up into him, fucks Stiles hard and deep, and says, "ssssh, it's okay, I'll take care of you."

He's losing control: he can barely reign in his claws and fangs, let alone hold back as he arches his back and pushes up into Stiles, Stiles's dick growing hard between them. Derek's not sure if Stiles will come, if Stiles _can_ come, but then Stiles starts to bear down on him, with real force this time. "Derek—"

Derek's knot starts to swell, abruptly, painfully, and he barely has enough time to thrust into Stiles again before it fills out enough to lock him in place. He swallows around the phantom lump of Stiles's magic, comes and comes and comes.

—

"Hey," Stiles croaks in Derek's ear.

—

For a little while, Derek coasts on post-coital bliss and the relief of having Stiles, safe and mostly unharmed, in his arms. Stiles's hair is tangled, overgrown, oily between Derek's fingers when Derek reaches up to card his fingers through it, and he's lost enough weight that Derek can feel his ribs when he runs his hand along Stiles's side. But Stiles is still here, and he's not going anywhere, and neither is Derek.

"So, while you're stuck in my ass," Stiles says eventually, "I—I'm sorry."

Derek hooks his chin on Stiles's shoulder, inhales his oak-and-thunder scent. "I should have trusted you."

Stiles shakes his head. "No, you were—you were right. I should have told you."

"It's a lot to tell," Derek says. "Professor Martin—"

"Oh, shit." Stiles's heartbeat ticks up. " _Lydia_ was here?"

Derek drops his hand from Stiles's hair to stroke his back, where his tattoos have gone dim and still. The skin around them is pink, like a sunburn, but it no longer looks swollen and sore. "Scott and Allison were, too. They brought me to you."

"I'm kind of a ticking time bomb." Stiles shrugs, casual enough that it would fool anyone who couldn't feel him tightening nervously around their knot. "They're pretty good at saving the world."

"They care about you," Derek says, and, before he can think better of it, "So do I."

"You saved me with your dick," Stiles says, leaning back so Derek can see his eyes, wide and bright for a long moment before they crinkle with laughter.

—

They get in a nap, some water, and a restorative bar of chocolate before Stiles's tattoos start glowing again.

—

As it turns out, Stiles edits textbooks for a living—he works for Nzogi & Chase, one of the largest wizarding publishers in the world. He's also a charms scholar, and he's turned down three offers to teach at Hogwarts. "It just seemed—dangerous," he says to Derek. "Maybe—it might be different, if you're—"

They're out in the Muggle part of the city to see the broad plaza and the big tree trimmed for the holiday. Derek wasn't raised with Muggle religion, but he's familiar enough with the rites and rituals. Around them, the crowd throngs, and someone sings about reindeer; if Derek squints, he can make out Scott and Allison coming toward them, Cora and Laura and Lydia in their wake, all eager smiles. Derek tightens his arm around Stiles and says, "We'll see."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains sex which Derek consents to for life-saving purposes and to which Stiles cannot give full consent because he's incapacitated by magic overload. Prior to the sex, Derek and Stiles have been broken up for several months. Afterward, they talk it over and decide to get back together.
> 
> &
> 
> I've made no attempt to set this fic anywhere in the UK. If you like, you could imagine this Hogwarts inside [Bannerman's Castle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bannerman%27s_Castle) and the scene at the end in New York's [Rockefeller Center](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rockefeller_Center_Christmas_Tree); I'll leave that up to you.
> 
> &
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] all plans are golden in your hands by verity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/982062) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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